


You Gotta Die Sometime

by aingea9867



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: CANT STOP ME, Canon Compliant, F/M, Graphic Depictions of Suicide Preparation, Multi, Suicide, This was supposed to be a really lengthy one shot but, connor will die, it's probably gonna be long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-10-28 04:22:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10823664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aingea9867/pseuds/aingea9867
Summary: Hello! I am Falsettos trash and no one can stop me, so here’s a fic based around the song You Gotta Die Sometime from Falsettos!





	1. To Go Out with No Care

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I am Falsettos trash and no one can stop me, so here’s a fic based around the song You Gotta Die Sometime from Falsettos!

Connor Murphy prepared every single piece of his suicide every night for at least an hour that week. He knew the exact minute he died that he would be happy with how he orchestrated it. The simplest suicide he would ever attempt, and he knew it would work this time. Every night as he planned he tied his hair up, letting the loose strands tickle his cheeks and the nape of his neck, reveling in the small sensations he felt, knowing it was the last thing he would remember.

He would not leave a note, instead he would leave a message in the form of a performance. The school talent show was the exact day before he planned his suicide, and he knew it was the way to go: no written words, you had to be there to witness it. After the performance he would run his hands over the rope, feeling out his death tool. His first suicide attempt he had used pills. These did not work properly, as noted in his journal.

The journal could have technically been a suicide note. But Connor Murphy knew he wanted no trace of himself for his parents to find. He gave them no forgiveness, no solace, not even the comfort of a note or any writing he ever made. He burned the words he wrote in his journal, one page at a time, with the lit end of a blunt. He kept his window open that night, airing out the smoke as he burned the pages and took hits. He spent the rest of that night with his hair up, wallowing in the high as he continued to admire the rope. The pages collected quite a bit of ash, and so he collected these in a teal-colored sand pail, a childhood favorite of his, and he labeled it Words.

After what seemed like hours of rubbing his hands on the rope, he turned to his last piece: the sheet music. He had auditioned for the talent show a month before with the song he wanted to leave with, and he got in. The next night was the show day, and he kept this music with him even though he did not need it. It was stained with ash, coffee, tears, and stray pencil markings. He marked breaths, cues, places he needed to fix a note or two, and acting cues in the margins. The paper was so marked up that he printed an extra copy for his vocal coach so he could actually read it. Every day he went over and added a marking or two, perfecting every piece of his last rites. He knew exactly what to do, how to do it, when to do it, and how to react.

Two days before this moment Connor went to school high. He didn't care at all, he was going to be dead by the end of that week and no one would be able to berate him anymore. He walked the halls with a newfound purpose that the high gave him, a purpose that said “I'm not afraid of death”. He was no longer afraid of death, as he had the control, he had the wheel, he had the tools.

He went through all his classes buzzed, as if a small cloud had obscured his vision just a bit. Every so often he would catch the eye of Jared Kleinman in his math class, receiving a sneer and eyes squinted at him, as if saying, _Why are YOU looking at me? What is wrong with you?_ Jared had absolutely no idea what would happen within the coming days.

In chemistry he caught the eye of Alana Beck, who gave him a strangely sympathetic look, as if to say, _I know you're pathetic and high, so I am giving you a sliver of pity._ Alana was clueless.

In his English class he caught the eye of his sister from the door window as she walked the hallway. She gave him the dirtiest look she could have ever given, saying, _You pathetic loser. I can't believe I have to call you my brother. You HAD to come to school high. Don't embarrass me._ Zoe was unable to save him at the last moment.

In that same minute, after slumping in his seat, he felt someone's eyes on the back of his neck. He brushed his hair to one side and turned his head to meet the sad eyes of Evan Hansen. He was staring at him, as if he, Connor Murphy, was a spectacle, some sight to behold. Connor hardened his eyes and continued to look straight ahead, avoiding any form of eye contact. He was avoiding this strange boy’s eyes with every bit of his soul. In his heart he knew why.

Later that day, Connor decided to attempt some words, some possible last words. He sat down at the computer lab, staring as the cursor blinked on a blank document. The way it appeared and disappeared enthused Connor, as if fading in and out of existence was a fun sight to watch. He stared at the document for nearly fifteen whole minutes before he begrudgingly got up from the chair, ready to stride out of the computer lab. On his way out he saw the same strange eyes that he felt so tenderly on his neck, the eyes of Evan. He turned to see that Evan was sending a document to the printer, tapping his fingers on the wooden desk as he waited.

Connor made a large circle around him, avoiding any chance of being seen, and snatched the paper off the printer. In that moment he remembered what happened earlier that day, while he was still buzzed.

In the morning, ‘Kleinman’ was standing with Evan, and Connor, at that moment high, was staring into space, a pocket of space that just so happened to be in between the two boys. A pocket of space that dictated his jealousy of a friendship like that, a small margin of error.

“Hey Connor!” Jared started, taking a step forward as Evan stayed behind. Hansen was clearly uncomfortable with the fact that Jared approached Connor, as he almost inverted himself, bringing his hands together as he picked at his fresh white cast. Connor made a mental note of that.

“Loving the new hair length,” Jared continued. Connor was braced for an insult, as no one ever complimented his hair length. Who does that?

“It’s very… school shooter chic!”

There’s the punchline.

Connor probably would have laughed if he wasn't stoned, but he would have immediately cut off his laughing to berate Kleinman and send him on his way. Instead he defaulted to the anger he usually felt towards Zoe when in this high state.

“It was just a joke,” Kleinman defended himself. That’s the end of the line. If he didn't defend himself I would have walked away.

“I'm laughing, can't you tell?”

The words simply fell out of Connor’s mouth, unable to be kept back. Everything in his brain went fuzzy after that, like a radio under a tunnel, and when he emerged from the tunnel it was already 6th period.

In the present moment, Connor looked down at the piece of paper in his hand, the words morphing together like a hellish blur. He glimpses nothing but _Dear Evan Hansen…_

Connor waltzed over to Evan, still the slightest bit high, though it had mostly worn off. He usually would have rolled another joint and gone and smoked instead of going to lunch or 5th period, but he opted against it that day.

“So… how’d you break your arm?” he asked, trying to keep the conversation somewhat lighthearted. He remembered nothing from what happened previously. Every possible scenario raced through his brain until he finally picked out the one he could only remember through a sheet of static. _I pushed him._

_Why was I so dumb?_


	2. It's The Last Little Moutain I'll Climb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is gonna be a TON more than just 3 chapters btw! It's just that Connor's POV will get 3 chapters and each other character will have a chapter each. Enjoy!

Connor went through the rest of the day clueless as to everything that happened. It was just the way he wanted it, it was all perfect. He wanted to remember nothing of that day. And so he left school, walked home, and sat down at his desk.

To divert some attention from the fact that Connor is planning his own suicide, I will describe his desk. It was old, weathered, and was passed down to him from his great grandfather. When his great grandfather died, he decided he wanted his desk. He would sit there with his elder and write funny stories. The memory meant nothing to him now, it was only a place to lay out his will.

* * *

It had been two days, and the school day went by like a blur. Connor retained no information, as he needed none of it. There was no future for him. He was going to die that very night, but not without his message.

Immediately after lunch, he ditched class to run home and get ready. Connor made sure to change into his nicest black jeans. They still had rips, but only at the knees. It was his idea of classy. He slipped on a dress shirt and pulled his coat back on over it. He ran out the door and took his time walking to the school for the talent show. After all, he couldn't sweat. It would stain his shirt, his hair would get greasy, his face would get oily, and he would be ruined. He took his time.

* * *

Time rushed by until he was finally on stage. Everything flew by until he was in front of the microphone.

He could catch the eyes of everyone who he could remember from two days ago. Their eyes told him stories, and today they were no different.

The track started, and the soothing wind instruments and sharp drum filled Connor’s ears, the waltz of his death starting. His heart raced and the air became thick: he had about 3 minutes to express his feelings through this song he prepared for so long.

“Okay, when the doctor started using phrases like… ‘you'll pass away’... what could I say?” Connor expressed his discomfort through his tone of voice, letting the escalating and descending notes take him where he wanted to go. He kept his expression slightly terrified, as he was in the moment he almost tried to take his life the first time. When the doctor came in he was terrified of being arrested, or not being taken care of, or being killed by the doctor. He wanted control over every single piece of his death.

“I said ‘Doctor, in plain English!’” He kept his eyes wide and scared. “‘Tell me, why was I chosen, why me of all men?’” Why was he chosen to have the problems? Why couldn't it be Zoe or one of his parents? Why couldn't he have a normal family and look at the other kids and think, Oh pity. At least they're nice.

“Doctor, here's the good part:” Connor fiddled with his jacket, but kept his feet planted and raised his head up high, his voice getting more tense to prepare himself for the next sentence.

“At least death means I'll never be scared about dying again.”

In the audience he could see Jared’s face soften, the sympathy finally taking over. Evan’s mouth opened slightly and his eyes widened. Were they getting it? Did they understand?

“Let's get on with living while we can and not play dumb. Death’s gonna come.” Connor let himself soften, finally showing he accepted the fact that he was living out his last moments on the stage. _Death’s gonna come. I have control over it, no one else does,_ is what he thought. His eyes must have communicated it, because Evan seemed to grow more scared still.

“When it does, screw the nerves! I'll be eating hors d’oeuvres! It's the roll of the dice and no crime… you gotta die sometime.” Connor let his voice grow in volume and intensity and softened near the end of the phrase. He let his voice crack, simply, yet somehow stylishly, at the very end. He was close to tears already, and he wasn't even halfway through the song.

“Death is not a friend, but I hope in the end…” he started to imagine Jared in this moment, singing the words directly to him, eyes fixed on him.

“He takes me in his arms and lets me hold his face. He holds me in his arms and whispers something funny.” Connor let out a small chuckle, thinking of the things Jared would whisper to him if they were friends. Even if they were more than friends.

“He lifts me in his arms and tells me to embrace his attack…” Connor lifts his hands up to his throat, letting his long fingers trail down to exactly where his noose would sit later that evening, as if Jared was wrapping his hands around his throat. When the instruments cut out for a moment, he immediately drops his arm and widens his eyes, still fixed on Jared. “...then the scene turns to black.”

He didn't want darkness, and he made this clear in the way he acted after that line. Clearly terrified, Connor paced in the small box near the microphone, his hands playing with his coat. He turns to the audience again for the next line.

“Life… sucks. People always hate a loser, and they hate lame ducks. Screw me, and shucks!” Connor turns to Evan for this line, his eyes softer than with Jared. He sees the strange expression on Evan’s face, as if he was watching Connor die right on the spot.

“That's it! That's the ballgame!” Connor let his voice grow louder as he expressed his anger with the world. “I don't smoke, don't do drugs, and then comes the bad news!”

“I quit! That's the ballgame! It's the chink in the armor, the shit in the karma, the blues…” Connor put emphasis on every word he needed to, annunciating the consonants to keep the tension strong.

“Can I keep my cool despite the urge to fall apart? How should I start?” Connor was practically convulsing now, racked with emotion. The words flowed through his blood and coursed within him. After all, they were his last.

“I would cry if I could, but it does no damn good to explain, I'm a man in my prime! You gotta die sometime.” He said this line with a punch of sarcasm. He had no prime, he had no peak, and he would never reach it. He turned his head away from Evan for a moment, only to notice a camera. Connor’s throat tightened as he saw himself through the lens. Someone was videoing the performance, and he could not see who it was. He quickly shot his eyes back over to Evan.

“Death’s a funny pal with a weird sort of talent. He puts his arms around my neck and walks me to the bed.” Connor used these words to drill into Evan specifically.

“He pins me up against the wall and kisses me like crazy. The many stupid things I thought about with dread, now delight… then the scene turns to white…” Finally he was satisfied. He wanted everything to be okay, to be pure, like him. He was Connor’s only solace, which is why he envied Evan so much. Although Evan was not always happy, and constantly looked uncomfortable, there was a light around him that no one could describe properly. He wanted Evan so badly, but knew that it wouldn’t work. Evan’s expression continued to morph into one of utter confusion.

“Give me the balls to orchestrate a graceful leave. That’s my reprieve!” Connor was crying now, and he didn’t notice. Tears fell and he only felt them when they splashed onto his hand.

“To go out with no care, my head high in the air!” Connor held his head high as the lyrics said, keeping a steady gaze on the fire alarm in the back of the room. He kept himself straight and poised, making sure that every word rang out properly, making sure that he kept his chin up, but not too high. If he broke his alignment, he would miss a note or go off pitch, and he would ruin it, He would ruin everything he planned for.

“That’s the last little mountain I’ll climb…. I’ll climb…” he prepared for the higher sequence, crescendoing throughout the longer phrases. The room suddenly looked so dark to him. Everything brightened up, almost like the screen of a phone, but it instantly went back to the same, dark old room that he was in.

“You gotta die sometime! You gotta die sometime, you gotta die sometime…” Connor leaned into the phrases, letting them take him to his destination. The end.

“You gotta die sometime, sometime, sometime, sometime…” Everything seemed to fade out except for his voice, different with every word he dug into. “...sometime sometime sometime sometime!” The chord was perfect, his note was perfect. He hung on for a little bit longer than he usually did. He didn’t want to let any of it go, he didn’t want it to finally be the end. But he cut off, and it was over.

His last rites were complete. The only thing to do now was to end everything.

End it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment anything! Critiques, praises, what have you!


	3. He Would Have Hated His Epitaph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor H. Murphy  
> 1998-2015  
> “Always a flower, never a burden.”
> 
> He would have hated his epitaph.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY Y'ALL I'M BACK! This is a short "finale" to the Connor chapters, and that concludes anything from his point of view, or anything where he does any actions. Whoops!
> 
> I have a few other chapters planned, and I have a lot more time on my hands. Finals are over tomorrow!

When it is time for someone to accept their death, they are usually already on their deathbed. They have succumbed to some terminal illness, something they can never fix. They have lived their last days in a hospital, surrounded by loved ones. Very rarely do people prepare to die outside of a sterile building.

Some people are delighted to die in the comfort of their own home. Most of these people die from old age, or refuse hospital treatment for an easily curable yet fatal illness. They also do not have a choice, but in a different way. They do not choose when exactly to die.

There is a small subsection of people that have been able to control both the time and the place of their death. It is not impossible, but it is a horrible way to die. Not as horrible as a fiery one, but certainly a horrid way to die.

Most of these people are young adults or teenagers. They succumb to stress, anxiety, or the words of others. There are many other reasons why people kill themselves, but more often than not it is for a vain reason.

Connor Murphy was not a typical suicide. He chose a typical cause of death for a person like this, but he went down a different road when it came to his message. He knew most students at the school that he cared about would make their way to the talent show the night before. He would see their eyes, stark white in the darkness of the theater, and he would see them behind his eyelids when he died.

He did, in fact, leave a small message. It was not what anyone had expected, though. Once he had everything set up, he scrawled a few sentences onto a torn up piece of paper.

“Accept an autopsy. Cremate me. Ask for Carole at the Wicker Funeral Home. She has some ideas, if you want to listen to them.”

After he had written down his wishes about his body, Connor turned to the rig. It was simple, really. The rope swung from the vent on his ceiling, from which he had removed the grating. Next to it stood the step ladder he stole from the garage. On his desk sat the turquoise bucket, and next to that the piece of paper.

For seven hours he paced the room. Courage is necessary for this kind of endeavor, of course. He thought of what his family would say, how they would react. He expected that his mother would most likely find him first. She would shriek, something that would bounce off even bat’s ears, and his father would come rushing to her aid. Zoe would say nothing, she would just look at him. Connor got it mostly right.

Finally, he had prepared himself fully. It was 4 am, and he had waited for the perfect moment. Just before he had to go to school. It was the place that ruined him, the place that had made him feel this way in the first place.

Before standing on his chair, he looked at his wrists. They were surprisingly clean, especially for someone like Connor. 3 small scars graced his left wrist, and the right remained clean all for one scar. It was vertical, and only lasted about 5 inches. The damaged tissue was still pink; the cut was meant to be deep. Connor had learned from last time, and this time he was determined to do it right.

His bare feet touched the cool plastic of his chair and he stepped up. His feet stuck to the plastic, but he didn’t mind. Every last sensation would have to be savored before his death, after all. He took a deep breath in, and then exhaled. It was one of his last. Connor grabbed the rope, the rope he had rubbed his hands against for weeks before this, and it was finally the day. The rope fit perfectly around his neck, not too snug, but not so loose that he would be able to slip out.

Tears fell down Connor’s face as he contemplated. This is it. This really is it, it’s over. I have the rope around my neck, I gave my message, everything is done. Everything is perfect. The one time things ever worked out for me. He considered letting out a scream before he did it. He did not know whether he would mean for it to help relieve the anxiety of the situation before attempting, or to help alert his family of what he was doing, in case one of them cared so much as to save him. He decided instead to exhale sharply, and then pushed himself off.

The rope held him perfectly, it cut off his breathing just right, and he sat there and waited. He choked, he struggled, but he kept himself from clawing his hands at the obstruction. It could only come sooner. The lights around him fuzzed, as they had when he blacked out in the supermarket that one time. He was five years old, and everyone had rushed around him before the blackness overtook him. In that moment Connor thought he was dead, but he was nearly unconscious. It did not take much to get him back.

The fuzziness grew, and spots swam before his eyes. It was an awful sensation, but Connor knew it had to be done. His other limbs grew tired, as the rope was the only thing keeping him from falling onto the ground. Everything grew more and more tired, until he could only see black. He knew he was still alive, however, because he had control over his muscles. He kicked his arms and legs in a last attempt to feel anything.

Everything was numb when he died.

Connor H. Murphy  
1998-2015  
“Always a flower, never a burden.”

He would have hated his epitaph.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment and tell me if you like it so far!


End file.
